and i will try to fix you
by Tariel H
Summary: People aren't meant to fix each other. That's what they say, anyways. Doesn't stop some from trying. (A love story in multiple parts).
1. beginnings

**A/N: I've got midterms but these two assholes won't leave me alone. Any mistakes are my own, this is unbeta'd and it's 1 AM here. A continuation is most likely in order. **

* * *

Translucent raindrops pour down from the sky in an angry delgue. John holds his jacket over Joss's head as they walk away from the crime scene. Her car's busted, tires blown out, windows cracked. That's what, the fourth car in three months? Finch is going to have to start paying her car insurance bill (he probably already is, in hindsight). Conveniently, John and Joss are stranded in the seediest sector of Russian territory where any of the million taxi-men might pull a gun on them before they have time to say 'go'. But still, they walk with certainty.

John, for the most part, is silent, which is unnerving, eyes flickering down to touch her own. He's not one for small talk, but she's not particularly in the mood for his man-pain either. Last time she checked, he wasn't the one bleeding out slowly (but that's being unfair and she knows it).

If Joss wasn't so bone deep exhausted, if her goddamn arm wasn't bleeding out, she'd be pissed. But, as things are, she _is _beyond exhausted, and her arm _is _bleeding sluggishly (getting shot hurts, no mistake about that), so she sticks with the current reality, even though it really fucking sucks, and files the potent, mildly growing mixture of annoyance and frustration away for another day.

"If you had just told me what was going on, John…"

"Not now Carter."

"Fine." Her voice is sharp as the wind slapping against their cheeks.

(She knows John will make an on the down low call to Finch later. Tell him to somehow clean this one up. It's nice, she supposes, to have someone else clean up a mess for a change.)

It's a struggle to keep up with his long strides. The rain doesn't let up (they are drenched to the bone, she is cold and her _hair _damn it). Her arm throbs dully, one hand sliding unsteadily to keep pressure on it.

"John—" Even to her own ears, her voice is reedy. The case had her high on adrenaline but even that is pumping out of her system with each passing step. It's been a hellish week, with bodies dropping from all corners, and Joss has been on the move, hardly eating, sleeping less.

"I know." John says. Emotion is laced tightly in his undertone. "I'm going to get you out of this." When he reaches for her, Carter leans into his touch, to press herself closer against his side, taking in his warmth. His tall frame leans over her, in a lame attempt to shield her from the rain. It's natural, this is. So natural, in fact, they don't notice that they do it.

And even when they do, they don't pull apart. (They don't say anything about the close proximity to each other. You couldn't really explain these things, anyway. It's natural. That's all.)

Sirens whistle in the distance. "Shit." Cops ask too many questions (Carter is a testament to that. She's one of them, and she won't ever let him forget it).

Hurriedly, John pulls them into a small pharmacy as the cops fly past, throwing up sheets of dirty water that splash against the windows. Carter lapses into easy conversation. Defusing tense situations is what she does,

John picks up butterfly stitches, antiseptic wipes, painkillers. He holds up the bottle of ibuprofen with disdain, lip curling in distaste.

"Got anything stronger?" The woman glances around surreptitiously, sneaking her hand under the counter. Carter yanks John sleeve. "Whatever the hell that is, I'm not taking it."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't try to help." John slaps the money on the counter. Anxiety makes him terse and irritable and jumpy all at once, hand moving to his holster when the door slams open. Russians. _Fuck. _

"No change." She says. John narrows his eyes. Carter's wide eyes take in the two lumbering giants barreling towards them.

"Keep it." He grabs the bag, ushering Carter out with utmost haste, hand pressed against the small of her back. She looks pale and drawn; his fingers move to brush the plastered hair from her forehead.

Carter moves more slowly, sluggishly, her breathing labored. John quietly curses the number, the person who just turned out to be the perpetrator. (He doesn't regret not being able to save the man from himself. Just bad code, really. Bad code that got to Carter. Yeah, John really can't bring himself to fucking regret the two bullets blasted in that guy's chest. Idiot was wearing a vest anyways.) She knocks him out of his revere with a sharp gasp, her hands grasping the bloodstained arm of her jacket.

When she draws her hand back, it is stained red. John has little to say on this, except—

"You sure you're going make it, Detective?" His tone takes her off guard; it lacks the biting sarcasm and dry wit that she expects from him. When she stumbles, his large hands flits out, closing around her forearm gently. (The gesture is somehow more intimate than she can process right now, so she focuses on drawing cold, thin breaths into her burning lungs). She nods, leaning more heavily on his sturdy, steadying weight to catch her breath. It shouldn't hurt this god damn bad to breathe.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I don't appreciate being lied to." John says, hot breath blowing against Carter's ear. (The acrid stench of gunpowder washes over her nose. Gunpowder and, absurdly, mint.) He is close enough to feel the shiver run up her spine. Part of him wants to say her name. It would be easy (one syllable, infinite connotations). It might comfort her. (He wants that).

"I will be." Carter juts out her chin stubbornly, large eyes reflecting the vivid gold light emanating from the fluorescent lamposts decorating the streets. John presses his lips together in a fine line, eyes hard, expression heart wrenchingly serious as his thumb traces the soft lines of her cheek. His fingers do not avoid the bruise.

Part of him wants her to melt into that touch. (And if Joss was to be completely honest, she wants to. But he _has _to learn that she can take care of herself too, without him. So she averts her eyes, a concession of weakness, or more accurately a concession of his effect on her, biting her lip as his fingers trail down the pane of her cheek, stroking her ear, running down to fix her collar with the gentlest of touches.

He is surprisingly gentle with her, when no one else can see. She thinks she might love him for that). But now is really not the time for them to be having a moment. Carter sucks in another breath, like inhaling sharpened nails into her lungs, quick, stabbing pains that erupt in her chest. Despondent shadows lodge in the stark blueness of John's eyes, grip tightening.

He waves for a taxi.

"You sure that's smart?"

"We need to get you home." He doesn't like the look of those men that are trailing them, men who hold their guns in plane sight.

Finch babbles in his ear in a jarring, incoherent stream of sounds that John distantly recognizes are words, which turn make up sentences that are just beyond John's comprehension. There are at most two thoughts running around his head. The first is getting Joss to safety. The second, keeping her that way.

"_Is she safe? Is she safe?" _Joss rests her cheek on his broad shoulder. He turns, brushes his lips against her temple. Carter can't help but smile.

"Yes."

* * *

By some miracle, they make it to her apartment unscathed.

* * *

John averts his eyes as Carter strips her jacket off, bloodstained, and throws it into a crumpled heap on the wooden floorboards. Her shirt is the next item to be stripped and hurled from her person. John's hands involuntarily clench. Joss throws a semi-teasing smile over her shoulder. He has his back to her, but he feels the heat of her upturned lips.

"Relax white boy, I've got on a tank." He pulls his lips into a mocking half-grimace, blue eyes widening.

"That's a shame, Detective."

"Oh yeah? What exactly were you hoping for?" The question comes out less teasing, more serious, fraught with what she can only identify as frustration. Or want. Both emotions are unequally unnerving, but his eyes claim hers and she does not quell from the intensity of his gaze. He's tall, so she has to crane her neck up to meet his eyes.

"Are you planning on patching me up?" Her am has started to throb again. Shit, she's got so much work to do, paperwork and paperwork, a day job, a son damn it. There isn't time for her to be off playing hero-girl. If John notes her shift in mood, he doesn't comment, just bustles around doing what needs to be done.

The gash on her arms is, thankfully, more ugly than deep. Joss glances down at it in distaste, teeth gritting as it oozes crimson rivulets down her arm. It might be her imagination, but Joss thinks she hears a sharp inhalation is by her side in an instant.

"This is going to hurt." Joss gazes at him levelly. Something bothers her about this... Maybe it's the way he suddenly won't look at her. Maybe it's the dark, angry expression brewing in the watery blue depths of his eyes, or maybe it's the fact that he stayed with her this time, not that he really had a choice (no, that's wrong, people always have a choice, and he _stayed. _Her heart skips a beat. _He stayed_.

"I trust you." She says simply, pulling up her shoulder in an easy shrug (bad idea. the damaged muscles pull, she bites down on her lip and stifles a curse). Carter closes her eyes, one of her hands gripping the edge of the couch.

"You know, the last time I got patched up like this was before I left the army."

"Seems to be an occupational hazard. Maybe you should've stuck with being a lawyer." His touch is gentler than the medics. So is his voice. She closes her eyes, tastes sand and grit on her tongue, and briefly hears explosions, the yelling and screaming and dying of soldiers. Funny, how she can't remember the face of the first man she shot, but she remembers this stark, inexplicable pain, as if it's a welcome old friend.

He scrubs the wound with moderate pressure (an uncontrolled whimper escapes from the back of her throat; tears slipping unashamedly from the corners of her tightly shut eyes). He takes care not to hurt her, but does not pause in his ministrations. It will be worse for her if infection sets in.

"I'm just going to wrap it up now." Joss nods once, sharply. He closes the wound efficiently, then takes a warm cloth and wipes the dirt from her soft skin, taking care to run his thumb gently over the loose gauze affixed to her shoulder blade. She got lucky. It's not deep enough to require actual medical attention, and, if she takes it easy (he almost wants to smile at that unlikely thought) it will heal properly all on its own. Joss still lays back, eyes shut tight. He takes her face in his hands, wipes the trail of tears from her cheeks.

"It's over." He rasps out. She takes a breath, blinks twice. Even his voice doesn't sound like his own. He isn't himself when he's with her. (But this is a lie and he knows it. The problem isn't that he's not himself, it's that he _is._)

"I'm hungry." It's a struggle to keep her voice even and not tired. John looks at her, pursing his lips, and Joss wants to laugh. He knows her. He can see the strain in her brow the tense set of her shoulders. He sees through that. More than anything, he understands this pain, like welcoming an old friend home.

"Come on then." There's his hand on her forearm again, helping her to feet. Joss has an illicit, sneaking suspicion that he's touching her more because he wants to than because of any real need. One shallow wound on her left shoulder does not make her an invalid, though it hurts like a bitch. Maybe he just wants to touch her, to make sure that she's okay and not broken, or dead. Compassion booms in the pit of her belly, its warm flames spreading through her limbs. He does care.

Not that she ever doubts that he doesn't, not after everything (after she's save him and he's save her), since every move he makes regarding her seems to be for her 'protection' when it's not number related… But this?

This is new territory. It's like walking on a minefield. Joss takes absurd care not to blow anything up. The smartass comment dies a natural death somewhere between her throat and lips, though she can't help the smirk that leaks from the corners of her mouth.

"Are you going domestic on me, John?" She says, teasingly, as he moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.

"For you, I might consider it." He deadpans. She sits at the counter, and he passes her the tube of ice cream, and a spoon.

The house soon smells of a low, simmering heat, of crushed basil and sliced ginger. There is something else too, something deeper, less explicable. Hunger, maybe.

Her tube of ice cream sits forgotten on the counter.

"Taste." John turns off the stove, and slides his hand under her chin, holding the spoon out to her lips. Obligingly, Joss leans forward. His eyes never leave hers, only flickering with dark emotion as a moan escapes her lips.

All of a sudden, his mouth is pressing against her, lips moving over her own. Her hands grip the back of his neck, run up to tangle in his greying hair. When he swipes her mouth open with his tongue, pressing a wet kiss on the jawline of her neck, she whimpers. John pulls away again, spoon forgotten on the floor. Carter is the one to close the distance, though she misses her mark, kisses glancing off the corner of his mouth.

She wants to slap the smugness off his face, which very, very close to hers. So close, they share the same breath, his forehead pressed to hers.

"John. I'm fine."

"I shouldn't have gotten you into this." She's not sure if she should be irritated with the sentiment or not.

"I'm a cop, John. It's all part of the business."

"And I'm supposed to protect you." There is something raw burning in his stomach. (He'll recognize this as guilt later.) His hand lingers on her cheek. Joss covers it with her own.

"Don't look at me like that." He raises an eyebrow. She's tired, all of a sudden. He waits patiently for an explanation, when she pulls away. Her mouth twitches.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken." There is a palpable vulnerability lining her words, one that John picks up on immediately.

"Joss." He's never certain what to do around her. He wants to be a better man.

She shakes her head. "Maybe you should go, John. You've patched me up. I can take care of myself from here." He is her best friend (and more judging by that kiss, the heat of his lips is still a very vivd memory that she's loathe to release). But that doesn't mean she wants him here to see her fall apart. It's not the first time she's been shot in the line of duty, but it's the first time he stayed. It's such an intimate thought, Joss' stomach coiling.

"Joss." John says her name again, his voice warm and inviting. "Come here." He holds out his arms. While his voice is confident, his jaw twitches in uncertainty, though the rest of his face is perfectly stoic. Joss still hovers by the door, chewing on her lip. She gazes at his outstretched arm, a quiet refusal of the comfort he might offer.

John sighs, and is by her side in an instant. He bends and scoops her into his arms. The sensation catches him off guard, the unexpected flush from the heat of her legs pressed against the crook of his elbows, the way her weight feels like home in his arms, the warm expression beheld in her big eyes—

"God damn it John! Put me down!" — pulls her down on top of him on the couch. She lets out a loose bark of a laugh, lips threatening to curve up into a smile, nestling against him.

"You always have to make me do things the hard way, Joss."

"It gets me to where I need to go." She shifts over to one side, bad arm slung over her belly. It's obscenely comfortable, her head tucked under his chin, his fingers running through her hair in gentle, soothing strokes. It's enough to lull Joss into an easy slumber, her legs curled up her body. He stays awake, as long as he can, before burrowing his nose against the softness of her hair, guarding even in his sleep.


	2. sanctum sanctorum

**Chapter 2**

**A/N: This is basically early morning fluff because Joss Carter is not a morning person and I just needed Careese fluff. Sorry for the wait, but this chapter just refused to write itself. I appreciate every single one of you guys reviews, seriously. It means the world to me.**

* * *

John's heart slams in the confines of his chest. He lurches up from the couch, reaching for his gun on instinct, and slides it out of safety with a click before daring to look around at his surroundings. Sunlight beats down on his skin from a half-cracked window. Carter's bloodstained shirt still lies in a crumpled heap on the floor. Ah. Now he remembers.

Carter (But no, that's wrong. It's Joss. She can't never be anything but Joss in his mind. Whatever he calls her in public is for show). The Russians, a number gone wrong. Bryton _fucking _Beach. Fresh in his mind is the memory of a searing kiss pressed to her lips, the sweeter ones returned to him with equally ferocity and passion. He sets his gun on the coffee table. A blanket is tucked around his broad shoulders, legs stretched out from under the edge. Carter's scent washes over him, drenching him with the heady swirls of jasmine and lavender. He's in her home, must have fallen asleep. His arms feel oddly empty without her in them. (It's something he could easily get used to. Sleeping with her. Holding her. A man could get use to this, what must be happiness).

He places his feet carefully on the scrubbed wooden floorboards. They creak under his weight, each squeak as loud as a gunshot. It's shameful how he can't move without making noise in her house. A damn shame. His movements are filled with jittery apprehension as he checks her room (covers un-crumpled. From this, he assumes she slept the entirety of the night wrapped in his arms, waking up only recently to cover him). John finds her perched on one of the chairs in the kitchen.

The morning light cascades down on her skin, setting her skin afire with gold rays from the sun. Her hair is loose and slightly curly, voice still tinged with sleep, and with her left hand she drowsily stirs a cup of coffee in clockwise circles.

She's beautiful. John swallows. What does a man do with this? With Zoë… well he probably wouldn't have stayed the night. With Jess… (John veers from that train of thought. He doesn't think about Jess with Joss. Or at least he tries not to). In the end, he stalks lowly towards her, wrapping his arms around her supple waist. Joss doesn't even flinch away, just leans into him, speaking softly into the mouth of her telephone to her son as John rubs circles into the small of her back. He tilts his head down, cold nose pressed against her temples, and Joss sighs inaudibly. It feels like the right thing to do, at this moment.

"Do you want me to come pick you up, Tay?" She closes her eyes at the reply, tension building in her shoulders. He rolls his thumb at the muscles between the blades of her shoulders, and just like that she is soft and pliant under his fingers.

"Okay… If you're sure. Love you." She hags up and nestles the back of her head against John's collarbone.

"That was Taylor. He's…"Joss trails off, biting back a stiff yawn.

"He's your son." There's really no other explanation for it. Her devotion to her child never fails to ignite a yearning deep within him. A yearning for family. A home. Both, depending on the day of the week. She becomes softer like this, speaking other her son as he holds her in his arms. The lines on her face aren't so deep, and her lips are curled into a pleasant, peaceful expression. Almost vulnerable, in her own territory. She offers him a smile lopsided and sleepy that's crooked on one side. The expression looks warm and at home on her features. She looks younger. Happier. (This is her sanctum sanctorum). And that is all he could wish in the world. Her hands tangle in his as he pulls away from their embrace, hand hanging limply by his side.

She pulls away too, not wishing to break the ease in which he stands in her company, sitting up a little straighter on the wooden stool by the counter. They're at the same height like this. Most days he forgets how small she really is, barely 5 foot 3. (He'll chalk it up to her ability to carry herself like a giant). The urge to touch her is suddenly overwhelming, (he _needs_ to be touching her, right now, she's still too strung up on sleep to acknowledge the intensity of his gaze); so, very carefully he steps forward, placing his broad hands on her thighs. He sort of tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips as if asking her _is this okay? _Joss raises her eyebrow, hiding a smile behind her cup.

(The warmth of her skin does not distract him).

"I'm surprised you're still here." She says, breaking the comfortable silence. John sees it for what it is; a challenge. He hums, pressing his forehead against her, noses colliding in the briefest of kisses. (That's when he knows, know in the deep in slow ache that spreads through his lips, knows with the explosive race of his pulse thrumming in his chest, that their will never be a love such as this, a love so sweet that he would die for it. There will never be anything greater than the sum of them. It shouldn't scare him.

_It does)._

"I'm not good at this, Joss." That's… not what he meant to say. But it comes out anyways.

"I'm not asking you to be." She murmurs, setting the coffee cup on the counter. "You don't need to be." Joss draws traces the hard edge of his jaw, palms cupping his face. He won't look at her, not even as her fingers trail down his neck, settling on either side of his face. "You're fine John." His name tangles in her throat, tongue stumbling over the familiar syllables. Here they are again, in this unseen, unknown territory. She only wishes she knew what to say, to ease whatever shadow lurks within him. Even now, at the most content she's ever seen it, it's there. That darkness.

When he draws away this time, she lets him go. He touches her cheek with his long fingers, tucking loose curls behind her ears.

"I'll be back." He says, and she nods, forcing the disappointment down to someplace where she can't feel it.

"Okay," she says, (because there's nothing else too, as much as she might want to, she can't force this.), "I'm here." When he presses his burning lips to hers, holding her chin to pull her closer to him, it is meant to be a promise.

And he never breaks his promises to her.


End file.
